Andy Richardson: Witnessing the wildlife on an evening selling merch
A friend called. He was about to go on tour. He had nobody to sell copies of his new book and, since we’d published it, would I mind being the man behind the counter swiping the debit cards?
It was hard to say no to a rock star with an OBE, Ivor Novello and more gold and platinum discs than Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter. A strong ‘yes’ seemed the best answer.
And so on a cold, wintry Saturday, I drove the Dream Transit and a pallet of books in search of credit card transactions.
Manfully, I also accepted the unpaid role of Chief T-shirt Seller. Bliss.
While the rest of the nation ordered Domino’s Pizzas, popped bottles of Prosecco and decided what to binge-watch on Netflix, I had the enviable task of wearing three layers, two hats and keeping myself warm and cheerful in a merch booth that at one point soared to a scorching six degrees celsius.
Not without good reason do I consider myself lucky. Elton John told us Saturday Night was Alright For Fighting. It’s also alright for selling books and tees in the frigid South West.
Besides, being the person in the merch booth is a little bit like being the designated driver. While everyone else is partying, wearing leopard print string bikini tops and drinking more over-priced lager than their livers can process, they get to people watch and enjoy a thrilling insight into the human psyche.
I wrongly imagined the display of T-shirts and books, allied to a really big sign saying MERCH BOOTH, might help people to realise the reason for my presence. I was wrong.
My main role for the evening became not directing people to the ladies toilets, confirming that I was not, in fact, the cloakroom, laughing inwardly at drunks and their misplaced aggression. It was also an opportunity to observe the wilfully perverse – and respond in kind.
So when a woman who may have imbibed a few too many sherbets walks towards a merch booth displaying T-shirts and asks: ‘Do you sell drinks, too?’ it seemed perfectly reasonable to marvel at her inadvertent daftness. ‘I’d like a lager, please,’ I replied.
Three people stood out. There was the woman, I guess she must have been the 23rd, who approached the obvious-T-shirt-seller and asked: ‘Do you know where the ladies is?’ I politely responded in the negative.
And then she looked, laser-eyed, then slowly proclaimed: ‘Do you want to think carefully about that?’
Erm, no, but thanks for giving me a second chance. If I did think about it really carefully, I may well come to the conclusion that, no, I’m a T-shirt seller, I’ve never been here before, I didn’t know where the ladies’ loos are and still don’t.
A wan smile seemed to convey my inner monologue and off she popped.
Another was a man who’d win the prize for weirdness in a pageant of village idiots. ‘Do you know where the gents are?’ he asked. I politely shook my head.
He began to shout. ‘Whaaat? Why? Rawr.’ Then, bizarrely, he smiled like a choirboy, having behaved badly.
The letters FOOL probably ran through his core like the word Blackpool in a stick of rock.
Another woman became enraged in a way that she’d have regretted the following morning, shouting across a foyer in outrage that I didn’t know the internal layout of a venue that I’d never been to before.
How Could I Not Know The Layout Of Every Venue In The UK? Was I An Idiot?
I smiled. It’s oddly amusing to watch people react so absurdly when they’re in drink and have lost control of their senses.
She shouted at her boyfriend too, poor man, then found the ladies herself as her embarrassed and mildly humiliated partner shrugged his shoulders and gave a ‘Yeah, she’s always like that’ smile. Funny. I’d leave her then, mate.
The music inside the venue was pounding. Big tunes. Big thrills. Big dances and a chance for people to get happy after the horrors of Omicron and Covid.
Outside, at the merch booth, there wasn’t the chance to dance in quite the same way.
But there was almost as much fun.
